The Lady Knows Best, page 2
Daphne refused to shy away from Miss Cooper’s sharp look, though she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Because I . . . because I believe in love.”
The other woman choked back a huff of derisive laughter. “You would do well to remember, Miss Burke, that one of the aims of the Magazine for Misses is to promote rational conduct.”
That phrase even appeared on the magazine’s masthead, which proclaimed a mission to improve wisdom and promote rational conduct among young persons of the fair sex.
“Scoff if you will,” Daphne replied, favoring Miss Cooper with a patronizing smile, “but I have witnessed the power of a love match firsthand, and many times over.” She had seen it in her eldest siblings’ marriages, and in her parents. “This man”—she gestured toward the letter Lady Stalbridge still held—“does not love his bride-to-be. I doubt he even is capable of it. And I also question whether any father who could arrange such a match truly loves his child. She will be better off a spinster than yoked forever to a cad.”
A murmur of approval greeted her speech. Miss Nelson nodded. “Well said.”
“I wonder, ma’ am,” said Miss Addison to Lady Stalbridge after a moment, “whether we oughtn’t to consider making an advice column a regular feature of the magazine?”
Lady Stalbridge’s lips curved in an expression of thoughtful interest. She weighed the matter for several minutes while the others looked on. At last she said, “What say you, Miss Burke?”
“Consider the sort of advice she is prepared to offer,” Miss Cooper objected. “Worse than ‘listen to your parents.’ Listen to your heart,” she sneered.
“Personally, I prefer to use my head,” Daphne replied evenly. “And I should recommend that others do the same.”
Someone at the table, perhaps Miss Addison, choked back a triumphant giggle.
“If you join us,” added the young Lady Clarissa, “and if there’s time, perhaps you could round out your first month’s column by advising someone how to persuade her papa that a young lady can pursue a career as a concert pianist without any loss of reputation or respectability.”
Daphne could easily guess the identity of the young lady in need of guidance on such a subject. But she could not help but wonder about her father, who was unlikely to be persuadable on such a point, though Lady Clarissa was perfectly in the right, as far as Daphne was concerned. “I would suggest changing the instrument,” she suggested with a nod of encouragement. “In your letter. Just to preserve anonymity.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Stalbridge. “Outside this room, we guard everyone’s identity strenuously, including that of Mrs. Goode. As I’m sure you know, the Magazine for Misses does not always receive a warm welcome. Sadly, too many still believe young ladies incapable of forming—to say nothing of expressing—sensible opinions on matters of both education and entertainment.”
As a girl, Daphne had wished to become a teacher. Gradually, however, she had come to understand that teachers were most often impoverished young woman with no other choice. To choose such a profession might be seen as a slight to her family, as if her father and brothers and brothers-in-law were incapable of supporting her in comfort. It might be taking a situation from a young woman desperate for the sort of respectable independence a teaching post afforded, as her sister-in-law Rosamund, Paris’s wife, had once been.
But she hadn’t given up entirely on the dream until the day Bell had looked her in the eye and exclaimed, “You just want an excuse to order people around!”
“So, Miss Burke,” Lady Stalbridge prompted, “what do you say?”
Daphne still suspected that she was wanted primarily for the possibility of persuading her famous elder sisters to participate in the venture. Or that the offer was merely a means of ensuring her silence.
But joining the Magazine for Misses as an advice columnist would finally give Daphne an opportunity to make her own mark on the world—if anyone listened.
“Daph?”
Bell’s voice. From inside the bookshop, though not yet close enough to have overheard anything.
“I accept,” Daphne said, leaping to her feet and snatching up Eileen, who squeaked in protest. “But I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”
Lady Stalbridge stood, too, and handed her Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square’s letter, even as she laid a finger across her lips to remind Daphne of the necessity of secrecy.
Daphne bobbed her head, tucked the letter into her reticule, and left. The swish of her skirts nearly toppled a stack of books as she hurried back toward the front of the shop. “Careful now, miss.” The clerk, who had at last deigned to make an appearance, paused in the act of helping another customer to admonish her.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied without slowing her steps.
Bell, who was standing just inside the door, turned toward the sound of her hurrying feet. “There you are! Were you hiding?”
It took several moments for Daphne to realize her sister was speaking to the cat.
Bell lifted Eileen from Daphne’s arms, deposited her once more into the basket dangling from her forearm, and tapped her pink nose. “You naughty girl. You made Daphne get all dirty.”
Daphne glanced down to discover a streak of dust down the front of her skirts and a goodly collection of white fur on her dark green spencer.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I was—” she began, though uncertain what explanation she could offer. But Bell was already off. After a few fruitless swipes at her clothing, Daphne followed her sister out of the bookshop and into the bright spring morning.
Daphne had spent a great deal of time in England since her three eldest siblings’ marriages, but she had always preferred Dublin to London. Now, however, the prospect of being able to meet regularly with the staff of the Magazine for Misses gave the city a fresh appeal.
She imagined the friends she would make among its writers, even Constantia Cooper—all of them dedicated to the prospect of improving wisdom and promoting rational conduct. She, Daphne, would advise other young women how to make good choices and attain their dreams.
And unlike Bell, they might even listen!
Cautiously, she wended her way into the throng of shoppers, trying at least to keep her sister, and the Finch House footman who had accompanied them on this excursion, in her sight. Bell never moved more quickly than when she’d been given permission to purchase a new bonnet.
The milliner’s was only slightly less crowded than the pavement outside. As Bell pushed her way to the counter, Daphne hung back, content to daydream as she pretended to examine a display of gloves. A few moments later, her attention was caught by a gentleman who, though standing on the street, appeared to be looking right at her through the gilt-lettered shop window.
Fashionably and expensively dressed, Viscount Deveraux was the sort of man who always carried himself as if he knew how handsome he was, with his brown eyes, straight nose and sculpted jaw, and careless waves of dark blond hair just visible beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. If the gossips could be believed, his looks were not all he had to offer the women who were willing to brave the scandal of being associated with such a rake.
He was accompanied this morning by his friend, the Earl of Ryland, who was dark-clad as usual and somber-faced. Lord Ryland was every inch the gentleman, surely a better friend than a man like Lord Deveraux deserved, but rumored to be too indebted to pursue a bride who did not bring a fortune.
Daphne had been introduced to both of them in passing at some event early in the Season. Lord Ryland had been flawlessly polite; Lord Deveraux, she was quite sure, had forgotten her name the moment it was spoken. He had hardly even met her eye.
So why was he now looking her up and down while wearing an unusually pleased expression?
When Lord Ryland spoke to him, drawing away his notice, she belatedly realized he had been studying his own reflection in the glass. His warm smile of approval had been all for himself.
Rolling her eyes, she dragged her gaze back to the gloves and began to make mental notes on her answer to Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square. This afternoon, she would find some way to send a draft to Lady Stalbridge.
“People call him ‘that devil Deveraux,’ you know.” Bell appeared at her elbow with a hatbox in each hand. At Daphne’s raised eyebrow, she laughed and gave a little shrug, as if to say, I couldn’t possibly be expected to choose. “They don’t even bother to whisper when they say it. I pity the girl he is going to marry.”
Daphne bobbed her head in agreement. The story sounded familiar, and why shouldn’t it? That particular affliction—a loveless, faithless union—was a common one around Town. At one and twenty, Daphne had hoped to avoid the indignity of the marriage mart entirely. But she couldn’t very well leave Bell to navigate the rake-infested waters of a London Season on her own.
Daphne followed her sister from the shop, eager to get home, review the letter from Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square, and begin writing out her answer. In her head, she tried out a few particularly cutting phrases sure to put the chess-playing rogue in his place. Occasionally, she caught her gaze wandering to the broad shoulders of the fair-haired gentleman several yards in front of her. Just the sort of devil she had in mind....
CHAPTER 2
A few days later
Miles, Viscount Deveraux, did not look up as booted footsteps approached and came to a stop beside his chair. Nor again when the fellow to whom the boots belonged said with an exasperated sigh, “I feared I’d find you here.”
Alistair Haythorne, the Earl of Ryland’s voice. Just what was needed to put the cap on this overflowing chamber pot of a day. Miles lifted his glass to his lips, intending to toss back another swallow or two.
But no brandy seared the back of his throat. When had he finished his drink?
Unrumpled as always, Alistair called for coffee, signaling to a waiter even as he plucked the empty tumbler from Miles’s hand with a grimace of distaste. Before Miles could curl his fingers into an answering fist, Alistair slapped a magazine against his palm, in place of the drink.
Miles blinked at the tattered paper cover, trying to bring the print into focus. “What’s this?”
“The explanation for your present misery.”
“If I am miserable at present,” Miles retorted defensively, pushing himself more upright in the deep leather chair, “blame the lack of brandy, not . . .” He squinted, blinked, squinted again. The letters danced before him. “. . . Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misshus—er, Misses.”
A ladies’ magazine? He could just make out some folderol about rational conduct and wisdom. He peered at Alistair in disbelief.
They’d known one another for . . . well, Miles’s head was in no condition to do sums. A very long time. Since they’d begun at Eton together. Three days into their first term, an older boy had made some snide remark that had caused Alistair’s slight shoulders to slump and tears to spring into his eyes. Miles—bold and comparatively brawny—had instinctively come to the smaller boy’s defense.
They’d both been soundly thrashed, first by the older boy and then by the headmaster. But out of their shared misery had sprung a lifelong, if unlikely, friendship. Alistair had seen to it that Miles passed most of his classes and, in recent years, took his seat in the House of Lords, at least on occasion; Miles had made sure Alistair hadn’t been picked last for every game of cricket and even coaxed him to indulge in a spot of fun, once in a while.
Miles prayed his old friend was having him on now. “And here I thought I was bearing up reasonably well under the latest news about bonnet trimmings for this season,” he said, tossing the ladies’ magazine onto the table. It knocked the empty tumbler onto the carpet before skidding to a halt.
Alistair didn’t smile. “You’re hiding in your club and drunk before noon.” He snatched up the magazine as a servant arrived with the coffee tray and deposited it on the table between them. When the servant bent to retrieve the glass from the floor, he and Alistair shared a glance that could only be described as commiseration. As soon as he’d gone, Alistair added in a lower voice, “And everyone knows why.”
“Word’s abroad that Miss Grey won’t have me, eh?” Miles blew out a breath and slumped low in the chair again.
He supposed it was inevitable that a notice in the morning edition of The Times calling off the wedding of the Season would spark chatter, no matter how small the print.
“Worse,” Alistair declared, making no effort to soften the blow. “Word’s abroad why Miss Grey won’t have you. And worst of all”—he gestured with the rolled-up magazine—“the news is circulating among the young ladies themselves.”
Miles eyed the magazine more intently, even as he wished Alistair would stop waving it about and making his head spin. “A gossip column can hardly be considered news.” He’d been the subject of tittle-tattle too often to muster anything like fear.
“If I were you, Deveraux,” Alistair cautioned, “I would not be quite so dismissive about this particular publication. Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses may not have been around for long, but it’s earned quite a fearsome reputation.” His voice dropped lower. “It promotes freethinking and rule breaking among young ladies. Magazine for Mischief, people have even taken to calling it. Or worse, Goode’s Guide to Misconduct.”
Mrs. Goode, the formidable persona behind the popular if controversial book of domestic advice, Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping, had evidently lent her name to the periodical. “Magazine for Misses . . .” Miles mused, recalling what he’d read on the cover. He leaned forward and sloshed some coffee into a cup. Ordinarily he would have added milk and sugar—he liked things sweet, especially his women—but today, the bitter draught just suited his mood. “Misses . . . misses’ conduct . . . misconduct—heh!” He laughed darkly.
Alistair was clearly not amused by the pun. Miles, however, was reluctantly intrigued. As someone who derived much of his pleasure from the company of women who were willing to defy society’s strictures, he generally approved of the magazine’s philosophy.
“Why does that particular copy look as if it was dropped in the bathtub and then run over by a mail coach?” he asked, with a nod toward its tattered and curled pages.
“It might well have been,” Alistair answered with a shrug. “The thing is handed about in secret, among girls whose parents would lock them up if they were caught.”
It never ceased to amaze Miles how few people understood that forbidding fruit only made people long for a taste. “Where did you come by it, then?”
“My sister Harriet was hiding it inside her arithmetic lesson book,” Alistair explained with an aggrieved sigh. “Her governess brought it to me—scandalized, of course—and I promised to give Harry a talking-to. But first . . .” He thumbed through the magazine. “I wanted you to hear this: ‘Dear Miss B.—’” he read, when he’d found the page he sought and folded the cover back. “‘Recently my father accepted on my behalf an offer from a gentleman who has, I will admit, a less than sterling reputation. But I persuaded myself that his proposal was a sign he meant to return to the path of virtue himself.’”
Miles snorted. “Are we pretending I’m the only recently betrothed chap to whom that could refer?”
Alistair sent him a sharp but knowing glare over the top of the magazine before continuing to read aloud. “‘Then, at the dinner party hosted by my parents to celebrate our engagement, he slipped away to the library, where I found him with another woman. . . .”
That did sound like him. “Well?” Miles prompted. “What’s the charge? What does she claim to have seen me doing?”
“It doesn’t say. There’s a row of little stars, as if something had to be redacted.”
Miles snatched the magazine from his friend’s hand and scanned the page. A sketch of a honeybee filled the uppermost corner, the insect’s flight path indicated by a dashed line looping around a banner of text: Trust Miss Busy B. for Good Advice . . . Even if It Stings!
Eventually, his gaze came to rest on the damning
********.
Oh, very clever, inviting readers to fill in the blanks with whatever salacious details their imaginations could concoct. He took a slurp of scalding coffee and grimaced.
“Mrs. Wellcroft and I were playing chess,” he said in his defense. He and the widow were old friends. “We’d both grown bored with the conversation over dinner, and neither of us fancied cards.”
One of Alistair’s dark brows lifted into a skeptical arch. “Playing chess. Is that some new lovers’ cant I haven’t heard?”
It was true that Miles wasn’t very good at chess. Certainly not as good as he was at . . . other things. “I didn’t tup her, if that’s what you’re implying. At least,” he added, a little sheepishly, “not on that occasion. I’ve turned over a new leaf since my engagement to Miss Grey.”
“One might expect to find a nine-day-old leaf still fresh and green, barely unfurled. Not crumpling into dust at the slightest touch. And yet . . .”
Miles hardly heard him. He’d picked up reading where Alistair had left off.
I overheard the pair of them laughing together over something—a wager, of which he is a party, pertaining to whether he would find a bride this Season! Humiliated to think I had merely been the means of winning a bet, I slipped away undetected and cried off from the rest of the party. Since then, I have pleaded various ailments to avoid everything to do with the wedding—especially him. After three visits from the physician, my mother is beginning to suspect. If I keep my promise to marry him, I’ll be miserable. If I don’t, my reputation will be in tatters. What should I do?
The letter was signed Aggrieved in Grosvenor Sq.
“Bloody hell,” Miles muttered.
The trouble had started when he’d arrived in Town at the start of April and mentioned to a few fellows, in the strictest confidence, that he thought it might be time for him, at the advanced age of eight and twenty, to give some thought to marriage.
